Clock-cricket is singing
With the blood rustling
Inside a literature fever.

Death is not innocence,
With this fever rustling,
A cricket- clock rushing.

Death is guilty by poet.
Literature is innocence.
It is an  innocent fever.

More literature, please.
Let a cricket-clock sing
More fever , less death.

(On reading Osip Mandelstam’s poem From Stone 98)

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